The Wax Wings of Transhumans

To Fall with Grace, Not From It

The myth of Icarus is one that I've had as of late, very freshly circling the focus of my thoughts. The story resonates what to me, is an ongoing truth since the creation of this particular myth. When considered analogously, the story cannot escape certain parallels to the relationship between Technology and Man. In this aspect, we are that creature that will fly too close to the Sun, regardless of how good a thing we possess, we will carelessly push passed the boundaries and destroy even ourselves in the name of Innovation.

In brief, Daedalus is an inventor who develops wings of feathers held together by wax. He and his son, Icarus take the wings on a test flight, each with their own pair. On land, Daedalus warns Icarus to avoid flying too high, as the sun will melt the wax and cause the wings to come apart. All goes well in the air but soon Icarus becomes more and more intoxicated with the sensation of flight and ignores the previous words of his father. Icarus flies higher and higher and the sun, sure enough, melts the wax and eventually Icarus' wings come apart and he falls into the end of his life.

Cloud through cloud, ending in a death-pounding plunge into the Icarian Sea, Icarus fell. He could not contend himself with flight--an achievement in itself so marvelous that following his father, Daedalus's instructions or precautions would have proven alone, a reward. The reward of flight. True freedom of the air as the birds have long before obtained and reveled. But Icarus took advantage, saw an opportunity and decided to withdraw the most he could from the experience. Of course, he paid with his life, yet when he flew--Good God, how he flew! It could never be said in comparison to Daedalus' flight, that Icarus failed. In fact, of the two it was certainly Icarus who flew. Freely, with the confidence and command of a natural avian, something winged and biologically earned. That is the truth of Icarus' flight; while Daedalus remained a human flapping wax wings safely and thereby remaining alive, surviving his son.

Taking this myth and applying to it, one of the current and more obvious areas of human ingenuity, I find myself faced with a conflict. I am conflicted because upon reflection to Man's daring and creative spirit, I at times feel like a Daedalus rather than that plunging, screaming, wingless man falling his last seconds of life away. And I confess myself to slight disagreement with some of the transhuman/futurist sensibilities that have accompanied technological advancement in the relatively recent years. Before further diving into my conflict, let us take a moment to consider the wax wings of Daedalus and then, the wax wings of Man, Technology.

It is after all, nothing short of true to call Daedalus' wax wings a technology. Daedalus himself, known for his ability as a master craftsman, was a master engineer. Earlier, long before his son set down into the depths of atmosphere and water, Daedalus had designed the labyrinth for King Minos to trap the Minotaur. He was developing technology for flight, human flight--though biology would much disagree as it would with fish covered in fur. Despite the biological friction it may at times create, Technology is not the enemy--isn't even as harmful as it is helpful. Tools are helpful by definition and their utilitarian contributions have helped to in turn, define Man as a tool making/using animal. Craftsmanship also produces good; dams, windmills, and sewage pipes are fine examples of very innovative technologies that have withstood the test of time since their respective debuts. Since then, the light bulb, telegraph, typewriter, airplane, elevator, radio, television, cellphone, internet, maglev trains, atom bombs, an so on...We live in an age of information, of exponential possibilities, what Ray Kurzweil calls, The Law of Accelerating Returns states, technological change is exponential...we won't experience 100 years of progress in the 21st century--it will be more like 20,000 years of progress (at today's rate). Indeed Singularity (when machines converge in sophistications to match the conscious human brain) is near!

And there my friends, is when the Sun breathes too close and we heed not the previous warnings or the consequence of flying farther and faster with wax wings. In the myth, I side with Icarus. I side with the idea that no limits should hinder experience; that Man must push beyond, regardless of what consequence may result. Even if we expire ourselves in the process, we've at least lived our age to its fullest and possibly, most dangerous potential. This being my stand, one would furrow their brow to see me swiftly morph into a scolding Daedalus when Transhumanism is brought up. My position hypocritically changes. I believe, for a very valid purpose. It all lies in the aspect of mortality in the transhumanist sensibility--it seeks to extend life, indefinitely if it could be managed. I find human immortality, a perverse notion, one for which a pair of wax wings does not match as a congruent analogy.

That is my conflict. Humans must evolve but death must never become extinct. It is because of an emotional reaction that I cannot face what rationally is a sound analogy--wax wings do very much correspond with Transhumanism. A man with wings is just as perverse a notion as a man with infinite life. But since I am far removed from the Icarus myth, because in the present it no longer issues forth the same impact as when the story was originally told--we can assume that part of the story's original thrill was applying to Man domain over an unnatural and therefore exotic technology--because since the time of wax wings so many exotic technologies have been introduced and practiced, if followed linearly into the present, Transhumanism is almost a natural conclusion to wax wings. So in this logic, there is no difference between wax wings and transhumanism. And still I am a practical Daedalus who can agree with using technology to advance our senses and experience of the world, while Icarian engineers see a new playground, a new opening to peek through the eyes of a god--a blind creator.

Try as I will I cannot be upset with the Icaruses of my time because there is no separation. There is no division of Man, where this side is Icarus and the other Daedalus. Man is a unified experience of the Universe, what one man creates, all Man creates; what one man is bound to practice, all Man is bound to exercise. There is only the collective representation. So it is logical that I include myself as part of that Icarus that happens to be 21st Century Man. Elemental as I am to this 21st Century Icarus, one can see why I understand. I can pardon the reasons--Reasons, which I feel need not be apologized for in the first place--but I mourn. I prepare myself for that fall. I mourn for everything that came before that dawning descent, all the heights and cleverness that lead to the creation of wax wings. I mourn for that falling creature who flew too close to the Sun; who had a good thing before becoming curious about what was just beyond, farther and higher. Unsatisfied with following his father--Taking in the full experience right up until falling, spending his last seconds being swallowed into his death by gravity.

What the Hell Am I Doing Here? I Don't Belong Here

UP IN THE AIR

Most people are bored. They want excitement and adventure; they want someone with an imagination who, not only thinks outside the box, but goes on to create his own boxes--repeatedly. The daily entanglements of responsibility and commitment may become a burden overtime and a need for escape may be found to be desirable. In many long-term relationships, boredom from routine is what leads to infidelity. Yet routine is a major factor in stability--things are the most stable when the sense of surprise is absent, when things are predictable and known. Stability and security are indeed that strongest rational selling points of Marriage (love being the prime irrational). So the reason for a serious relationship may become, by its own success, the reason for an affair.

People are drawn to the strange, the weird, the extraordinary, dangerous and care-free. If these people are daring enough, they attach themselves to these vivid individuals who brighten their lives and add to it, an unknown corner of suspense, surprise, a reminder that the universe is random. However, what is perceived as strange, is normal to the stranger--what one accepts as weird, is only natural to the weirdo. This leads to a misunderstanding between the two, the bored and the thrill provider--one that usually isn't addressed at the beginning of the meeting, whether it be an affair or casual, sexless friendship. The stranger does not consider himself strange, he doesn't see anything he practices as thrilling as a person would, who thought the behavior different from their concept of normal. I feel that an exploitation occurs when strangers are made use of by "bored normals". Of course, it cannot be denied that strangers are getting something out of the experience too, but in the case of an affair that gets too deep--a sad conclusion awaits the attached stranger who's been used.

No person is just one thing. Identity is not a solid block summed in a word, or just one action. Definitiveness is only acquired through death, while alive, a person is a compilation of emotions, of personalities, interests, reactions, and so forth--all converging into a system that creates a general application of these facets onto the external world experience. The point may be to narrow one's self down into a definition or grace, but during the process there exists and will exist for much longer--until the end, multiplicity. So when a stranger is left alone, drained and stranded with a full heart in an empty room, it may not come all at once that the newly disinterested party was never truly 100% herself. She was only satisfying one facet.

The stranger feels invaded, he feels like a circus where one may visit and forget their troubles--orphan their matters on the noses of seals that toss them effortlessly into basket hoops for a laugh and some fish. He feels awkward about his strangeness as its something that, unlike the spectator, he cannot get rid of, as its part of who and how he is. His normalcy is the strangeness that is only good for temporary amusement and nothing more. His routine is his anti-routine. Unfortunately this is unstable foundation onto which no serious relationship may ever be built. That is, so long as the intrigue that befalls him from others is based on mystery and a remedy for boredom.

We All Need Mirrors to Remind Ourselves Who We Are

What's coming through is alive.

What's holding up is a mirror.

But what's singing songs is a snake

Looking to turn my piss to wine.

If there is a mirror, I will more than likely look. I want to make sure I'm there, I want to see what's changed since the last time--or is it, that I want to note continuity, I want to make sure that I see the same thing on this glass surface that I saw on that glass surface. I am vain and self-involved, I twist and pose, adjusting the image until I see in my reflection, a close enough representation of what I want to see.

From moment to moment, paranoid I have disappeared or physically altered between glances, I crave to see myself--over and over, desperately through as many surfaces as I can stretch my body over simultaneously. I want to witness the moment I change--I want to direct and act; i want to edit myself, steer away any unfavorable second that introduces an alien interpretation. An ideal self has been programmed into my perspective; and to find anything foreign to that direction is to detect a harmful bacteria in the body of Identity.

What is this self-obsession? Beyond self-value and confidence, its the worship of insecurity. And what happens when mirrors stop being glass? Surely as all obsessions escalate--and certainly as the obsession itself is for reflection not reflective surfaces, new methods of seeing oneself come into practice. What are friends? When made to bounce your personality onto them and back to you? When they indirectly manipulate your identity in ways, favorable to you--When through them you become as you want to be known. What are expressions of writing, painting, music, and film, dance and invention--mirrors. We place them up high for all to see, but especially ourselves. As soon as we build the frame and marry the glass into its cage, we fall right into the assurance of existence. The immeasurable welcome of a self-modeled, self-promised portrait. By a near perfect painter and with the final glaze of a bias perspective, that of our own.

To Become or Not To Become

DIVERGENCE

There is a difference between who I want to be and what I feel I am becoming. It is a difference that like a cancer, can be avoided if detected early enough--I do believe it is early enough. But aside, in third person is where I push myself and the actions that can iron the creases and make the surface smooth, without a single wrinkle.

There is friction between who I am and where I am heading. Two futures at war for my life; I am already aiding the champion and with very little regret do I betray the defeated. Walking forward as it were, into a shrinking suit--that when worn, continually contracts and suffocates the skin; the collar becomes a noose and every step, a constricting evolution.

There are dreams, and they are gulfs, flying waves of vultures and ever-descending passions, instincts, and fears. Behind the flesh of Identity, we find building complexes, apartment networks--we find inhabiting memories, all with their very own sets of purpose and motive. There is direction, there is deceit and in a very natural, self-preserving hatred for possibility, there is assurance. And there is my fear that who I am becoming--regardless of my preference, is a mechanism, everyday perfecting itself so that certainty may one day be its skeleton, a frame on which to decorate its organs into a full functioning body. My brain like a board room for executive memories that have long since collected into cells and become independently bacterial, I would not be able to overrule.

In Hopes that an Idea is Planted

Now you're looking for the secret but you won't find it because of course you're not really looking. You don't really want to work it out. You want to be fooled.

Inception was released in cinemas this past Friday and after work, I made my way with faithful direction to Loews Kips Bay Plaza. I was ejected from my 8 hours at 4PM and arrived in time to catch the 4:50 showing. After what seemed like the longest collection of stalling coming attractions, the Warner Bros. trademark finally appeared and the film began.

I'm not here to talk about the film--this isn't a review. If you expected one from me, as I myself am guilty of having expected one, then I'm apologizing to you when I say, "I don't know how to review Inception just this moment." I walked out the cinema speechless (after just sitting in the theatre watching the closing credits). I didn't know what to say or what to think. The film wasn't what I expected but I was a far cry from being disappointed. I just couldn't express it, neither with word nor thought. And if it wasn't for my running into a friend on the subway commute home, I might've spent most of the evening tucked inside the numbness of silent analysis.

Christopher Nolan has been, since Memento, one of my favorite active directors. His films invite you to return for a second viewing; they are sophisticated, entertaining films that have been since 1998, attempting to balance sensory stimulation with psychological substance. I have seen every last one of his seven films but the first was Memento back in either '02 or '03, a few years after the film was originally released. Since then, I have viewed all of his films various times and spending much a thought, employed to analyzing them. Certain elements can be noted as part of Christopher Nolan's film language--elements, such as well-dressed men in suits, dead wives or family members, and guns tend to reoccur. Other elements, like the repetition of key lines, plot twists, themes of obsession, deceit, and duality are among the signature stamp that identifies Nolan's work.

So instead of talking about Inception, I will talk about its creator--the man who planted the idea, Christopher Nolan. But before I do, let me just further add to the experience of watching Inception.

There is a scene in Nolan's 2006 film, The Prestige, where Robert Angier (played by Hugh Jackman) has just returned from witnessing his professional rival, Alfred Borden perform his latest magic trick, The Transported Man. The scene jumps back and forth from Angier's description to his assistant, Olivia--to Angier sitting and watching Borden (played by Christian Bale) performing the puzzling illusion. Angier is spellbound; his demeanor, deflated by what he's just experienced. This is what I felt after Inception. And the more I am asked what the film was like and the more I think about it on my own--I find it easier or necessary to return to The Prestige. That said, I will constantly refer to The Prestige here, as it helps me to understand what a film like Inception, must mean to Christopher Nolan.

Though revolving around magic, The Prestige can also be about the aesthetics of entertainment. And since Christopher Nolan is in the business of entertainment, it is quite interesting to note the parallels between illusionists and film directors. Parallels that involve primarily, deceiving the audience and concept vs. style. The fact that the story structure to the film is modeled after an illusion, with a pledge, a turn, and finally a prestige, should be some indication as to Nolan's conscious recognition that his film about magic can also hold up in context to the art of filmmaking. To fool the audience, to have them lost in the story--guided whichever way you choose as the director, this among other things is the director's job. Likewise, in delivering such a story, the director faces decisions that may at times place concept before style or style over concept. To be a good shows-man vs. a natural magician. To name a quick example with budget, one can think of movies that have a good story but not enough money to make it as grand of a visual experience, or vise versa--a film with a great budget but weak concept or story (this is the majority of mainstream big budget films).

There is one major difference between Memento and Inception but both also have one key thing in common. Memento was the last original script Christopher Nolan wrote until Inception. The major difference by the way, is budget. It could be true to say that Memento is an example of what Nolan can achieve on a small scale (with magnificent effectiveness, if I might add); Inception is what Nolan can achieve on the success of The Dark Knight's record breaking $155.34 million opening weekend. I can almost hear an executive meeting taking place in the Warner Brothers Studio office, a cypher of business men discussing projects and when Nolan's name is brought up--"Wait, what? He wants to work on a sci-fi film about what? He won't say?! You know what...Fuck it! Just be sure to bill it as coming from the director that brought us The Dark Knight...I'm sure its gonna be confusing as hell and people are going to watch it twice. I don't care if its a baby saying blood for two hours while his parents laugh at him, Nolan knows how to present it!"

I'm sure they weren't that confident about him as an artist but I at least am willing to bet they trusted the demand for Nolan's work after The Dark Knight.

Going back to Memento and Inception, what I start to wonder about is, how long has Inception been an idea of Nolan's? How has every film since Memento been evolutionarily instrumental to the production of Inception? How has Inception (if the story is in fact an idea that dates back far enough) been influential in determining what projects Nolan has involved himself in since Memento? Questions, and I have not the answers. But one significant clue in The Prestige calls to me. The Transported Man. Alfred Borden's precious illusion which requires risk and sacrifice, an illusion which Borden saves until he has enough resources to make it work. Inception is Christopher Nolan's Transported Man.

Yet, as Alfred Borden was a natural magician and Robert Angier, a supernatural performer--The Prestige is almost an allegory about the conflict between these two forces, with magic meant to represent Entertainment. So if Borden is a natural magician, then his trick cannot be as extravagant as Angier's--It would be more accurate, when returning from the analogy that, Memento is Christopher Nolan's Transported Man. Inception would then be, in fact, the end result of Borden becoming Angier. Or better still, both Borden and Angier meeting half-way to become one. This is what Christopher Nolan has brought to us with Inception. A film which balances action and idea, muscle and brain--It has its share of special effects but these elements do not invade or dominate the film--but rather, accompany the concept and narrative; altogether creating a style. For fear of jumping into a review I am not ready to deliver, I will begin to wrap things up.

As Nolan's career is really only beginning, I can only enthuse on the anticipation of things to come from this mentally engaging storyteller. Especially now that he is at a point where he can make a "financially generous" film; projects with budgets that allow his grasp to exceed his imagination. Brainy films are usually reserved for independent markets, or are cast aside from the shadow of summer blockbusters (which Inception, make no mistake definitely is). When we get into action films, "brainy" substance seems even less likely to appear in a major film. I hope this sets an example, rattles the cages, inspires risks to be taken; I hope escalation occurs and rival studios take chances on films of higher intellectual quality, to compete with one anothe--all for the indirect benefit to viewers like me.

An Undisturbed Moment: Great White Quilt

Huge herds of small clouds from either side of the heavens taper into the distant center; where the bruise of a sunset bleeds light stains onto clusters of bandaging cotton swabs. From either side of the heavens, retreating forward from behind me, as night leans its blue hues into shade. From either side, retreating as night stretches and begins to articulate. Into the distant center, compact expression, accumulated wrinkle, like great white quilts balled up into the mouth of a washing machine--Great White Quilts that can't all fit, into the cleansing light that fades away minute by minute.

Huge herds of small clouds from either side of the heavens converge at the agreement of a bruised center. They pace the sky, slowly, patient, with romance they draw faces to one another fusing into a kiss, exchanging shapes. A colony of one giant organ, an unbroken dream. From either side of the heavens, shoving steadfast into the echoing light the sun leaves behind, as she exits. Herds of blooming clouds that wish to leave with her, trying as they might to all squeeze into the sun's reverb.

Night continues to push forward from behind me, from either side of the heavens--the corners, darken like wet cloth--The stampede, rushing desperately with microscopic urgency; fractional speed. And its very well that many of the swelling herd will indeed find haven--one last embrace from the sun, carrying an armful with her, pressed against her breast as she leaves the day for good. Its very well indeed for some, but most will remain where they are--Where the wound of a sunset, is licked by the salty saliva of evening, and the bleeding gash of light, scabs and then heals. Night washes over the cool, new skin with breeze and mystery.

Huge packs of large clouds, full elephants trading bodies in mid-air, from either side of the heavens the herds are breaking apart. They disperse with tension and futility, embarrassed as they float about, realizing they're stranded. They have been abandoned--Great White Pillows facing the same golden door, now shut. Orphans, they perhaps begin to adapt--inspire influence from the reaching caresses of night's heavy palms, they sigh one last breath of day before turning round, with their backs to the scar where the bruise of sunlight once stood.

The Diameter of Your Knowledge is the Circumference of Your Activity

TO THE END OF THE WORLD OR THE NEW YEAR

Among some of my favorite feelings, Accomplishment is one of the top-ranking. Very few things feel better than finishing that which you have begun, that which you've labored towards completing; placed time and thought into achieving in its end, a closure or conclusion. I place high value in being able to close a project and say, with a deep sigh of satisfied relief, "I'm done!" And what's more, to say those two words knowing I didn't rush, didn't lie or cheat, didn't cut corners just to accelerate the status from "in progress" to "complete". Standing at that finish line with a final product that, borderline fascinates me--Almost makes me forget I had anything to do with it, I thoroughly enjoy opening the doors to the end. And since my self-fascination merits self-completion; and since that self-fascination feels quite favorable, my brain encourages any repetition of the euphoria it experiences during these self-indulgences. My brain likes it when I like myself, and thinks, "okay, he likes finishing things; well then, lets finish some more..." Its that simple, or at least it starts off that simple.

Completing what I start introduces to me, two friends who have helped me move forward through the years. Indeed, these two friends are responsible for any artistic progression I am capable of. They are Consistency and Definition and together they dually support the giant battery in my heart labeled Confidence. I am dearly indebted to them. While Consistency supplies volume, Definition provides substance. They, the two, are singular agents as well as binary; working together just as well as apart. Consistency produces a body of work from which Definition begins to rise; likewise, Definition encourages the self-intrigue that further increases the need to produce more work. In terms of blog writing, every entry I publish gives me such a good feeling of accomplishment that I immediately want to write and publish the next entry. When enough entries are published, I like to enjoy them as a collection and examine their strengths as well as their blind spots. I also like to note the maturation of my voice, the way my written expressions evolve from entry to entry--For better or worse, I learn about myself.

I like to think of a conveyor belt as a possible setting for an analogy of Consistency. Its a moving platform, loads are placed onto it and taken forward in direction. Consistency, like the conveyor belt, wants to help you; wants to maximize your efficiency and productivity. Mainly, to get as much loads transferred successfully, from starting point to ending. Returning to the subject of writing, Consistency is my cheerleader--Seeing a conveyor belt full of essays, blogs, letters, expositions, reviews, etc., becomes a sort of catalyst for loading more onto the belt. This as a reaction to the pressure removed as you've not to carry these loads by hand and back. In the possible analogy, this manual transferal would equate to writer's block or procrastination and distraction. What I mean to say is, Consistency is a resourceful friend that favors constant creativity, while with Consistency's absence, disinterest is encouraged by writer's block and distraction.

When a load finally arrives at the end of the conveyor belt, prepared, priced and ready to join its contemporaries out on the salesfloor, its journey has been completed. Each step of the preparation, this would include such things as pricing and inventory processing, are quick stops that transform raw wholesale materials, into finished retail goods.

This transformation can be said to be, if looked at from result first and then back, a defining; a process of giving the load that which will come to provide it its identity. As a soldier who's sole identity is strictly recognized as being a soldier, his earlier days at boot camp training and assimilation were the days that defined him--that gave him his current meaning as a soldier. So it is with finished goods, that the process it underwent before reaching the salesfloor is what defined the product as a purchasable item--And to finally nake the idea from over-accesorized analogies--so is it, that Consistency supplies Definition with something to define.

To define something is a completion all on its own. Understanding the meaning--the concept, the various ideas or symbols that merge to become a Voltron of concise analysis--Thus, definition is the end result of examination. It is also the end result of learning, which isn't too far off from an examination. To know a subject is to define a subject; and what better and ever-altering subject than yourself for examining is there?

Finishing anything awards a quality to that "anything"--A quality of being finite, bordered in a clear frame of perhaps, not comprehension but available solidity. I say "available" in that, every portion of the intended product is there, solid and permanent. However, not necessarily rigid in shape or form. What a finished product in Art may appear as could be a box, onto which an entire jig-saw puzzle is placed. When every piece is in the box, the product is complete--it is now up to the viewer to construct the image, piece by piece, all of which are available.

It is this available solidity that can be successfully examined. There is no such thing as internal expression, you cannot express a feeling by keeping it locked up, unreleased. Expression requires, to some degree, tangible proof, tangible presence--available solidity. Expression is the available solidity that allows us to self-examine ourselves, and in some cases as mine, to become fascinated with ourselves. And whatever it is that we are working to become, through expression we can see the pieces of definition align themselves. From stage to stage, the process, if consistent--provides further and further expressions, available solids to examine. At the end, awaiting our definition, our meaning, is the identity--which an entire life worked to define.

Feeling accomplished is like a preview, a window to glance through and say to yourself, "oh, so this is how far I've gotten" after long intervals of being unconscious to the fact. I can't speak for everyone on this but anything I start, any projects, any plans or schemes--at their commencement they are given an unspoken promise of completion. If ever I leave things undone, and this has happened countless of times, in fact more often than I complete them--If ever I cannot make good on that promise, I am haunted by all the unspoken accusations found in the Silence of the Unfinished. I try to avoid these accusations because they tend to be heavy, you have to carry them down the long corridor and your arms shake with protest. The conveyor belt being beside you, yet you've been denied access simply because you cannot lift your arms high enough to load the weight onto the belt. This isn't a good feeling and after weight after weight, your arms refuse the ability to even lift a load up from off the ground. Abandoned by Consistency, Definition, Confidence...

Luckily, moments occur when my friends and I are at our prime. We celebrate any and every accomplishment in as long as it maintains a point of origin and a counterpoint of conclusion. We feel at home in this state, we feel ready to participate, perpetually with or against Life and all its offered days. With or against, because Life doesn't care what side you're on so long as you participate. And Life is just one giant Participation Field of days--Days of experience knotted together; awaiting, the consistent fingers of definition, to be untied.